A Little Patience
by angel-death-dealer
Summary: The realities of wedding planning are far from what either of them had wanted. Oliver/Felicity.


After an hour of searching, Oliver finds her in the back of the foundry where the boiler pipes are situated. He'd looked in all her usual hiding spots and it wasn't until he'd discovered that each one was very void of his favourite blonde that he'd thought of looking in places where she thought he wouldn't think to look for her. The pipework was where Oliver came to think when the rest of the foundry was too crowded, surrounded by thick pipes and the occasional clanking of expanding and contracting metal that just cleared his mind enough to function.

She was sat with her legs drawn up on the old cot he used to sleep on. It had been a long time since he'd had any need to sleep in the foundry, and it had been delegated to the back of the unit since they'd had to expand other areas. She wasn't using any of the legroom that the mattress provided, with a small pout on her lips that was a tell-tale sign of stress, judging from the matching pinch between her eyebrows. She stared into the open burner, occasionally poking it with a broken off metal pipe that hadn't been cleared up since they were broken into a few weeks prior.

He said nothing as he approached her, but she didn't jump when he nudged her back to get her to shift forwards. She did so, letting him slide onto the cot and didn't fight his arms when he pulled her back against his chest, though she did keep her knees drawn up.

"Want to tell me what happened?" he asked after a few minutes of silence.

She sighed, relenting as she lay her head back on his shoulder and dropped her poking pole to the flood with a resonating clang sound. "Apparently I'm not very good at being a woman," she announced.

Oliver's response was a smirk, his arms winding around her as one hand strayed down to rest on the underside of her thigh, cementing her against him even if she did insist on keeping her knees close to her chest. "I wouldn't say that," he murmured against her ear, dropping his lips to the small dip behind her ear that usually drove her crazy.

The scowl between her eyebrows merely deepened as she kept her eyes on the burner.

"So, lunch went badly?" he assumed.

She didn't answer, just pursed her lips and sat up, pushing away from him as she watched the flames in the burner unit consume...wait, what was that? He sat up fully, one ar still curled around her waist as the other took hold of the pole and used it to lift a slip of fabric that was hanging on the edge of the entry point.

"Felicity, is this...lace?" he asked.

"Maybe," she said, with a small hint of guilt.

He looked closer to the burning fabric. "This is a veil, isn't it?" he realised.

"It's actually a fifty-inch two-tier veil, featuring five inches of authentic French Chantilly lace, feminine and lovely," she recited perfectly in a voice that wasn't her own before she dropped back to her disgruntled tone. "It is of popular opinion that I should be wearing one; though not in white. It should be diamond white or ivory tulle."

Oliver shifted so he was at her side rather than behind her, his face covered with an expression that was halfway between disgusted and frightened. "What, all the time?"

"No," she said, a smirk breaking through her hardened exterior at last. "For the wedding. Apparently with my mother and your sister involved in the planning it means we have to sit and talk about lace and silk and garters for three hours, so...I retaliated," she explained, indicating to the lace and guiding his hand so that it was almost dropping it back into the flames.

"I can see that," he noted, dropping the last of the fabric into the fire to watch it burn. "I thought we agreed that the only lace, silk and garters involved in the wedding was for the wedding night?"he asked, sinking back to lean against the wall and drawing her with him. She allowed her legs to relax this time, half-laying against his side.

"I tried to tell them that," she sighed. "But they have...other plans."

"Do I want to know what these 'other plans' are?" he asked.

"Unless you want to hear about plate designs, dress styles and a horrible rendition of shoes that I refuse to buy because I have better taste, I wouldn't ask," she groaned, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Really, I don't see why the shoes have to match the dress, it's not like anyone will be able to see my feet anyway if my dress reaches the floor. I could wear sneakers underneath for all they know."

Oliver chuckled, drawing his arms around her. "I suppose I shouldn't tell you about the bachelor party planning then?"

She looked up at him unfairly. "Tell me it doesn't involve heavy drinking, Vegas and property damage?"

He grinned, smoothing back her hair. "I could, but that would be a lie," he grinned, leaning in to kiss her. "Diggle's got big plans, apparently. I can't talk him out of them."

Felicity groaned, pulling the collar of his shirt down so they were almost eye level. "Take me with you," she pleaded. "Don't make me have a girls night."

He couldn't hold back his laugh. "It's not a girls night, it's a bachelorette party."

"With girls. I hate girls nights," she told him, still gripping his collar.

"Just one night," he said, tugging her further into his embrace so that she was seated in his lap. His arms wound around her just enough that it was easy to nudge her lips with his own as he spoke. "One night, and when you get back we can make it all better," he tempted, his lips trailing down her jawline with an obvious meaning behind his tease.

She bit her lip, enjoying his caress for just a moment before she pulled back abruptly. "Actually, that's not fitting with my maid of honor's plans," she told him.

He went to say something but stopped, looking up at her with confusion on his features. "Excuse me?"

She shrugged, planting her hands on his chest so that he couldn't tug her back down to his lips. "Apparently we should be...you know...saving ourselves for the wedding night."

He took a long look down her body before he answered with a dry mouth. "Are you saying there's no sex until the wedding night?"

"None at all."

"Starting now?"

"Starting four hours ago, actually," she confirmed.

He gaped for a long few moments, struggling to find the words. "But we're not getting married for five weeks, Felicity," he half whined. "Five weeks."

"They said it would add some purity to the relationship," she told him.

"No," he protested with a small growl, something he knew she adored but even that didn't weaken her resolve. "We don't need purity, we're doing perfectly fine with dirty and hot."

She smirked at that reaction, leaning dangerously close to his lips. "I tried protest, but they're very firm about it. No sex."

"I can't go five weeks," he said insistently. "I couldn't last five days. In fact, with where you're sitting right now I doubt I'd last five minutes. The blood rush might stop my heart." She shifted in his lap as if to get comfortable, but all it did was press their groins together and draw a groan from his lips. "Felicity, that's not fair…"

"Five weeks."

He kissed her, hot, filthy and with every convincing moan he could. "Five minutes," he countered.

"Five weeks," she repeated firmly. "Or I'll feel the wrath of the bridesmaids, which means you'll feel the wrath of me."

He turned his lips to her throat, running them down to her collarbone. "But I love your wrath…"

"Look what happened to the veil," she said, burner unit and raising an eyebrow. "Still love it?"

"I love you," he countered, before he took advantage of her position and flipped them so that she was laying on the cot beneath him. She was amused, but there was a hint of passion seeping into her gaze that drew a grin from him, speaking with his lips close to hers. "If we have to wait five weeks before I can touch you again, I'm going to end up bending you over the altar the second they announce us man and wife," he told her, his husky voice alone enough to make her shudder, but he drew her earlobe between his teeth just to draw his favorite moan from her lips.

"Is that a promise?" she teased, as her leg wound around to trap his hips against hers.

He growled again as he crushed his lips to hers. Between her thighs gripping his waist and his hands holding hers down, it wasn't clear who was pinning who, but it was pinning them together in all the right places to make them forget all about this new rule. Despite the layers of clothing between them, they rutted together, moans falling from their lips without control. Oliver had just started inching his hand beneath Felicity's shirt when he pulled away, sliding from between her legs to stand up.

"Well, I have some stuff I need to do, so…"

She looked up at him as if he had bought physical harm to a kitten right in front of her. "You're damn right you've got stuff to do," she said breathlessly. "Now get back here and do it."

He grinned down at her. "Oh, I will," he said confidently, allowing her to take note of how deliberately his eyes dragged over her body. "...in five weeks."

Her eyes narrowed at him. "Five minutes." 

He smirked, even though the tone of her voice made him want to pin her back to the cot and change 'minutes' to 'seconds'. "No, I clearly remember you said 'five weeks'. I think it coincided with the wedding."

She glared at him and he knew that look clearly. It was a glare that told him he had a short time to leave her presence before she did unspeakable things to the internet and shamed him for all eternity. It was a glare that he had never argued against, until now. He simply leaned down and kissed her lips with a frustrating softness.

"See you in five weeks, Felicity."

He could feel the glare cutting into the back of his head as he walked back to the more common area of the foundry, hearing the sound of metal striking metal where she had clearly thrown the pole somewhere out of reach. He knew she'd get her revenge tonight, but at least she wasn't angry about lace any more.


End file.
